Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 1

by Valerio Malvezzi

  “Yes, sir, in the afternoon, from this gas station indicated on the map, downtown. Two thousand five hundred.”

  So, he’s back in the city center. He will turn to the muscular man.

  “Call the Director for me.”

  “At this hour, sir?”

  “Do as I told you.”

  At 1:45 a.m., the pub will be almost deserted. The youngsters will head for the exit after launching a couple more insults under their breath at the man in the black sweater. The boy with long arms will throw his money on the counter, complaining to the owner about the service, to the laughter of his companions. There will only be one secluded couple left drinking in the corner, four players at the pool table, and an old lone drinker at the end of the room. The woman will approach Whiley, bringing him a second beer. “Anyway, thank you, but it wasn’t necessary,” she will say with a half-smile. “Anyway, we close soon, at two.”

  The man won’t know what to answer.

  The call will wake the Director in the middle of the night.

  “I’m sorry for the time, but we may have a lead.”

  “Tell me, Daft.”

  The voice will be sleepy.

  “Our man took money from his account from a gas station downtown this afternoon, two thousand five hundred. We know that by lunchtime he had spoken to Richard Proctor; the boy confirmed that he lent him his communicator for about ten minutes. And we’ve a recording of him yesterday afternoon from a flying bus station, northeast, suburbs, towards Brookfield.”

  The man will indicate the holographic sheet.

  “Well, you see them in this pattern: the calculation of distance, the nature of the lens, the nature of the soil and the environment, and the light conditions.”

  The girl will manipulate the images with her hands in space, then, dropping back, will raise her arms on the sofa, sighing.

  “For God’s sake, I’m exhausted,” she will say, gulping another glass of water, “Good thing we’re done. I’d say the picture is clear to me. That is... it’s complicated, I admit, but I should make it.”

  The girl will look at the time: 3:49 a.m.

  “Actually,” the man will say, sitting down again, “we’ve just begun. Now comes the hard part.”

  “What’s left?” she will ask, widening her eyes.

  “The determination of long-range shooting parameters.”

  “But how far will you be shooting?”

  “Three kilometers,” he will answer simply. “At least.”

  The girl will get up, stretch her black leather skirt over her knees, and walk around the room.

  “Has anyone done this thing before?”

  The man will imperceptibly move his lips, slightly shaking his head. The girl will walk thoughtfully, look at the clock again, then her own communicator.

  “We’re closing soon. We have to go somewhere else.”

  The man will swallow another pistachio.

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  The girl will nod.

  “Let me make a call.”

  “What have you decided to do?”

  “Proctor didn’t come home. His wife reported it to the police. Evidently Whiley and Proctor saw each other somewhere along the line. Do I have your permission to inform the police about it?”

  The holographic projection will contain only the voice because the receiver will not have authorized the viewing of the images.

  “Treat this with the utmost reserve. I don’t want the media to know anything about our research.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Ah, Daft?”

  “What?”

  “Report those banknotes.”

  “Already done. Tomorrow,” Daft will answer, nodding to the elegant man. On the other end of the line, a woman’s sleepy voice will come through.

  “Who is it at this hour?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a little work problem.”

  Whiley will go into the bathroom. The four pool players will be paying at the checkout, and the blonde woman will be turning out the lights after shutting off the music. In the room, only the old man will be left drinking in the corner. From the bathroom door, while washing his hands, he will get the echo of the conversation through the walls.

  “I don’t give a shit if someone grabs your ass. You have to respect the customers here, all right? He smiles, and it ends there. Mostly they’re guys who work their asses off all day and in the evening they’re a bit high... that’s all.”

  “I just don’t want them to touch me. I demand respect.”

  “Well, I expect you to come here on time tomorrow night and with a smile on your lips. I don’t pay you two hundred and fifty Eurodollars a week to send customers away, you know?”

  Whiley will wash his hands.

  “Tomorrow night? I mean tonight?”

  “Tonight, yes. That bitch Jenny called four hours ago; she’s got the flu. Why?”

  “Oh, shit, you know I can’t on Thursdays. I don’t have anyone to take care of Niki. I can’t, not without notice.”

  212 days earlier

  Just eleven kilometers from Istanbul’s old town, Yeşilköy, in the Bakırköy District, will become one of the city’s most important suburbs, after the expansion of the nearby International Airport of Atatürk, and full entry into the Euramerican Federation. The night will begin to clear eastwards, when the black electric car will slide along the marina. Holden will be comfortably relaxed in the right back seat, next to the girl. On the front seats, the blonde woman with the brush cut and the man with the ponytail, who is driving, will practically not have said a word during the trip. He will see a sign sliding along the window.

  Marina di Yeşilköy Burnu

  “Where are we?” he will ask the girl by his side.

  “My grandparents say that it was once called Άγιος Στέφανος, or St. Stephen. Many churches are dedicated to our patron Saint. I live here.”

  “Shall we go to your house?”

  “Oh, no. My friend is hosting us. We’re almost there.”

  Holden will look at the stairs descending from the waterfront to a very white and sandy beach.

  “Are the colleagues in front your guard dogs?”

  The woman with a brush of blonde hair will look over at the girl. He will have the instant translator entered.

  “They’re just friends.”

  Holden will continue to look at the sea, watching the seagulls in the bay. In the distance, the lights of a couple of fishing boats will flicker in the dying night.

  “We’ll sleep a few hours. I’ve had a room prepared for you,” the girl will say when the car stops near a white house on a side street. “We’ll continue later, if you don’t mind. I’m a little tired.”

  Holden will look at the residential neighborhood, still asleep on the sea coast, and follow the girl into the driveway.

  Five hours later, the man and girl will be seated on the top floor, the fifth of a small apartment building.

  “Oh, you can’t. Well, listen, sweety. You want me to show you how I can find another waitress?”

  Whiley will dry off with a rag.

  “See if you can bring your precious ass here tomorrow night, at seven o’clock, or don’t bring it anymore. Is that clear?”

  Whiley will stand in the small street, near the gardens, leaning in the shade of a tree away from the streetlights of the deserted street. When the pub lights go out, the black woman will wave goodbye to her colleague and cross the lonely road, wrapping herself in a shawl. The sky will be white and it will be cold, a wet cold. The woman will head to the old electric car parked along the sidewalk, about ten meters from the tree, and open the door.

  “Excuse me.”

  The woman, turning around, will immediately recognize the man coming out of the shadows.

  “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but hear the conversation between you and her boss.”

  The woman will stand still, with the bag in her hand, next to the door.

  “I w
as wondering if I could help you.”

  She will stare at him doubtfully.

  “Help me?”

  There’s no fancy way to say it, and it’s cold out here.

  “If you can host me for one night, I can give you five hundred Eurodollars.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not that kind of woman. You’re all the same,” she will answer, getting in the car and pulling out her communicator. “Go away or I’ll call the police.”

  Shit.

  “Oh, no! I didn’t mean that, of course. It’s just that I’m so tired that I can’t talk anymore, I mean I can’t explain. Today was a horrible day for me.”

  “You’re not the only one who didn’t do well. Now, if you don’t mind, I should go.”

  The man will approach, pulling out his wallet, looking into the outer compartment.

  She will look even younger without makeup and in a simple white t-shirt over sports pants. There will be a jug of coffee on the table, and the sun will filter into the room from the dormer’s light curtains.

  “Here we can rest easy,” the girl will say, opening a sheet of the holographic screen, sizing it with her hands at the corners until she pulls it to about half a meter. She will eat bread and jam while maneuvering the screens, perfectly at ease.

  “What about your friends?”

  “They’re sleeping,” the girl will answer, chewing. “They’ll go to work this afternoon. You weren’t very nice to them.”

  “Rude, actually, but your friends weren’t exactly irresistible. Are we there?”

  “Yes, they’re hosting us for a few days. It’s safer than going to a hotel.”

  “But do you live here?”

  “I don’t think that’s part of the contract. I don’t tell anyone where I live,” the girl will answer, chewing. “Let’s study the problem and you explain to me everything you need. Then I’ll take a few days to prepare the software, and I’ll give you the job when it’s ready.”

  The man will have a sip of coffee.

  “When you’ve finished your coffee, we can go to the terrace. It’s nicer.” The girl will pour herself a glass of fruit juice. “If I’m not mistaken, you told me the hard part is yet to come.”

  Three hours later, they will still be sitting on old wicker chairs on the veranda covered in vine reeds, and the sun’s rays will fall warmly on the marble table.

  “... The real problem, in shooting at such a distance, is that you should calculate the deflection of the projectile, the drop due to the force of gravity, and any wind currents.”

  “And here I come into play,” the girl will say.

  “That’s right. But first I have to explain the whole system that needs to be interconnected. Posture can affect the result of the shot disastrously at such a distance. So, I need a preliminary control system.”

  “All right, look, let’s do this,” he will say, putting notes in her hand. “It’s 850 Eurodollars, I can’t do better. I’m desperate. That’s all I have. I have something left, but tomorrow I have to find a way to go somewhere.”

  The woman will stare at the bills in her hands and then at the man standing with the wool cap. The man will look at the snowy white sky.

  “It’s late. I’m tired. It’s cold, and I don’t have a place to go.”

  He doesn’t look like a thug or a rapist.

  “I’d just like to sleep little.”

  Usually, rapists don’t put money in your hands.

  “And don’t think any more for a few hours.”

  Yes, but who does?

  “Sorry, but can’t you go to a hotel?” she will say looking at the bills. “With this money, I assure you that you can afford a room anywhere around here.”

  The man will look at her, then look down.

  “Please. Just for one night.”

  Oh, shit, what are you doing?

  “I guess you’re having a problem with the law,” she will say, looking at the money in her own hands, “and I really need everything, but these kinds of problems, you know?”

  You don’t know who the fuck this is here.

  “I won’t give you any trouble. I promise. I just need a room somewhere. I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

  Maybe I should call the police.

  “Promise.”

  The woman will still look at the man standing before her, hands in her pockets.

  “Where did you put the bag?”

  “The bag? Ah, the bag. I gave it to a homeless man in the park while I was waiting for you. It contained old clothes.”

  It seems so absurd that it must be true.

  The woman will look at the bills.

  That’s over three weeks of work.

  Then she will remain still, looking at the steering wheel.

  “All right,” the girl will say, “tell me what you want.”

  From the porch, the man will look at the seagulls and fishermen’s boats in the distance.

  “First of all, I need ordinary software to check that the optics and the rifle are perfectly assembled in axis, which tells me at what value to calibrate the stock screws and rings. The system must have calibrated the weapon at a known distance and, with the help of a chronograph, recorded the pulse rifle’s caliber speed. Then you must provide for atmospheric temperature recording, barometric pressure to check humidity, then the altitude of the place, and so on. All data must be sent to the computer inserted in the rifle.”

  “So far it doesn’t seem like a problem.”

  “At this point, you must transfer all atmospheric data and pulse speed to the computer, which establishes the projectile’s trajectory to the target; that’s the function of the ballistics program.”

  “I think I can find what you need, and then I’ll modify it.”

  The man will watch a couple jogging on the beach in the distance.

  “Yes, but I don’t need a standard program. You’ll have to prepare something for me to build my own ballistics table, on which I’ll have to train every day for at least a couple of weeks every day. I have to try the shots in different weather conditions, and as the conditions change, the repetitions will give the rifle memory the information necessary to calculate the trajectory’s variation according to the ballistics table.”

  The girl will take notes while the man rotates the rifle’s holographic image on the table above a fruit basket.

  “Ok, so basically a test program of your own, which creates your own personal ballistics table as the weather changes.”

  “That’s right. And that also records the corner of the site, see? I need an indication of how high the target is, or lower.”

  “And will you be up or down?”

  “I don’t know yet. Up, probably.”

  The old electric car will travel silently through the almost deserted streets. The blond man will be sitting silently by his side.

  What the fuck have you got in your head?

  “I’m sorry, I can’t afford a flying car,” the woman will say, driving. “And I don’t think I can offer you more than an old sofa in the living room.”

  “That’s perfect. Thank you.”

  He’s not from around here.

  “Just for tonight, right?”

  “Only one night. I’m sorry I scared you, and I realize my request is unusual, to say the least. I wish I had met you at another time.”

  He’s out of place, he speaks strangely.

  “You don’t look like someone from these parts,” the woman will say. “What kind of work do you do?”

  He looks tired, and he’s ashamed of the situation.

  “I’m a researcher. I work in an academic spin-off.”

  Fuck, if it’s a line, he doesn’t have much imagination.

  “It seems to be complicated,” the black woman will say, overtaking an automatic road-washing van. “I didn’t finish school.”

  The car will flow silently through the streets while a slight warmth will spread into the cockpit.

  “I can’t know what happened to you,
can I?”

  The man will be silent for a few seconds, too many.

  “I’d rather not have to lie to you,” he will say, looking at the streetlights flowing in the night. “I made a mistake.”

  And who didn’t.

  All of a sudden she will turn around.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, you didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

  The man will then turn.

  No.” He will seem astonished. “No, what an idea. Don’t worry. For the last time, I don’t want to hurt anyone. And I didn’t hurt anyone, okay?”

  The woman will continue to drive in silence.

  “Okay.”

  The girl will look thoughtfully at the roofs of the houses, which in that non-tourist season will rest silently on the horizon on the Sea of Marmara.

  “Anyway, be careful now, because here comes the difficult part,” the man will continue. “The Everest of computing difficulty.”

  “And that would be...?”

  “The wind.”

  The man will open a third holographic sheet, calibrating its brightness so that it’s perfectly visible in transparency on the blue of the sea.

  “At an extreme distance, like the one we are talking about, the wind is a real nightmare, which makes it impossible for some to make that shot.”

  “And not for us?”

  “We’ll make it, if you can determine the wind speed at these three points.

  The man will draw three circles on a curved line, at the ends of which he will insert two squares. On them, he will write the words shooter and target. The design will be motionless in the backlight of the sea.

  “We must know the wind speed at all times, at the beginning of the parabola, at its zenith—that is the highest point reached by the projectile in the trajectory—and on the target.”

  “This looks like a mess.”

  “It is,” the man will admit. “Also because it’s simplistic to talk about a wind.”

  The girl will look at him questioningly.